Crazed Sin
by Sejour Avec Moi
Summary: Father Zane is running against Slade Princeton for senatorial office of Domino city... but Slade is hiding a deep secret that lies in the mind of his deeply disturbed brother, Chazz. Rated for stuff. ChazzZane. Chapter Four is up..... yay?
1. Phone Calls

Crazed Sin 

**Priest, Father Zane is running against Slaid in a political campaign for senatorial office of Domino. But there is something Slaid is hiding, and it lies in the mind of his deeply insane brother, Chazz… Rated for masturbation, suicidal references, language, blood, gore and yaoi.**

**AU. ChazzZane. ConspiracyPolitical**

**Author's Note: Well, hello. So let's see, I'm writing a million and five things, one of which is my own novel that seems to be making absolutely no headway. I like this, though, and everything else (except my novel) will take a back burner. Personally, I think that this fic is too much Law and Order SVU… but that's okay. Can never have too much Elliot and Olivia. Never. Grins**

**Disclaimer: I don't own YuGiOh GX or System of A Down or KoRn. Shame, though. Oh well… onwards.**

**Dedicated to my Zozo. The stock market has crashed, and the ice-cream is everywhere.**

Look at each other 

_Go away…_

_Mutually, mentally molested children of a Mother_

_Mutually, mentally molested children of Sin_

_The ever so popular beating that took you under_

_The ever so popular beating that broke your skin_

_Free thinkers are dangerous_

_Blame, Hate, For Fate's Seed_

_Go away…_

_Need the ones you love and love the ones you need_

_Need the ones you love and love the ones you bleed_

_Lives rearranged and lives in my range, can you breathe?_

_Lives rearranged and lives in my range, can you see?_

_Free thinkers are dangerous._

_Blame, Hate, For Fate's Seed_

_Why…_

_Gonna let you mother fuckers die_

_Why…_

_Look at each other..._

"Father Truesdale, you are aware that many of Domino's voting populace think it ridiculous for a minister of the Catholic Church to run for senate-"

"Times are changing," Zane growled, pushing at another news crew member as he waded through the crowd of reporters, endless flashes illuminating the path to his apartment and blinding him. Didn't the fucking press go away? It was ten o'clock in the fucking _night_.

"And Father Truesdale, what are your views-"

"I don't _know_! Leave me _alone_, I want to get to my _apartment_!" he yelled angrily, pushing the journalist. She stumbled backward and dropped the camera. It fell to the floor with a heavy, metallic 'thunk', and the lens shattered instantaneously with contact.

There was somewhat of an uncomfortable elastic silence. The newswoman was looking up at him for her impromptu seat on the hallway floor.

Great. He lost another vote, and that paparazzi bitch was probably going to sue him for some sort of abuse. This was great for the campaign… just _great_.

Zane sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. How was he supposed to fix this?

He offered her his hand.

"Listen, I'm sorry-"

"No," she said coolly, evenly as she got up and brushed herself off. She was looking him daringly in the eye. "I'm just fine, thanks."

Flash. Flash.

_Great,_ Zane thought grumpily, looking uncomfortably around as he shielded his face from the somewhat accusing, hungry flashes of the cameras, _I can just see me in the tabloids tomorrow: Candidate Truesdale Strikes Reporter: The Inside Story of An Angry Priest._

He expelled another sigh from his body and walked briskly past her. He couldn't be bothered.

He took his keys out of his pocket and began to consistently sieve through, his hands stopping and inserting the key in the lock of his apartment door before turning it. The flashes, the clicks of the cameras, the whispers, made this moment sinuous, unabridged, and as long as an eternity. It's amazing how ashamed you can be while just opening the door to your fucking apartment.

_You're another fuck up priest, Zane,_ he thought crossly as he jammed his hip against the door and it swung open into the apartment. The flashes cast his elongated silhouette in flickers on his carpet. His shoulders were slumped, slightly defensive, and the gait he had while walking into his apartment was somnolent: it was of a tired, angry man that just wanted _sleep_. The reproving, dazzling bursts from the cameras ceased when the door was closed, and the darkness stole and amalgamated into the shadows and finally consumed all as the door swung back to its frame with a resolute shut.

Zane sighed, it seemed to be a habitual greeting to the inanimate objects of his abode: the couch, the TV, the kitchen, his ruddy cat that had probably shit in his shoes again and was prowling around somewhere.

"Kitty," he called dryly, his hands groping along the wall in its customary gesture to search for his goddamn light switch. He found it, and he turned the dial marginally to the right so a dim light brightened the room: he honestly couldn't handle anything too bright at this hour. He had a headache, he was hungry, and he wanted a smoke.

"And Zane said, let there be light, and there was light."

He smiled in spite of himself and just snickered. He looked at his ankles with distaste as a black cat came and began to rub its neck against his shin with feline languor.

"Are you hungry?" he asked it flatly, pacing to the couch and absently resting his keys on a table before he flopped down, forcing off his shoes with his feet, and they fell to the floor. The cat slinked towards them, and next thing the priest knew, the cat had sprung up with the fluidity of movement that only a cat could have, and it nestled itself almost possessively on Zane's chest. He smiled at it.

"Well, good for you, 'cause I'm out of cat food and no way in hell am I going to the corner store. Not with those bastards out there."

The cat seemed to know what he was saying, because its head jerked up from Zane's chest and its eyes narrowed at him.

"You know, I should name you," Zane mused, his mouth sort of tilting at the corners. The cat's eyes had become reproachful slits.

"How about Alice?"

The look the feline gave him seemed to be one of skepticism and loathing.

"Yeah, there's some whore in the church that keeps on hitting on me named Alice, I don't like her either."

Zane frowned as his hands dived in-between the cushions of the sofa to find the remote. He knew it was there somewhere.

"How about Julia?"

The cat continued its chary, languid stare. It licked the fur on its paw.

"Something tells me you don't like that one either," Zane chuckled, giving up on the search for the remote control, "I've never met a Julia, but from what I heard, they're supposed to be very nice…" He trailed off and his face screwed up in thought, and he spit out another name.

"How about Mary?"

The cat's facial features distorted in a hiss, and it got to his feet with slinky, cat-like speed and leapt off of Zane.

"Well, too bad," Zane called after it, his hand plunging into the gaps in the futon and finding the T.V. remote at last, "because that's what I'm calling you."

He was rewarded with another hiss.

"Yeah, you be like that, bitch," he yawned loutishly, scratching his private areas with one hand and channel surfing with the other.

His thumb became sore from channel surfing. He did not know when it flaccidly fell to his side or when sleep purloined his consciousness, but he knew one thing: Mary had probably run off to shit in one of his shoes again as revenge.

_Heh, better watch which ones I'm putting on tomorrow._

Sighs and moans woke Zane up.

He cracked pen an eye to see a man and a woman engaged in what looked like greatly stimulating sexual activity. He sighed: good ol' porno.

Priests were vowed to celibacy, and Zane seemed a bit indifferent in his lack of a sex life. He went, watched his clergy members bitch at each other about the inconsistency of the attendance of the church's members, he walked outside the church and reporters bitched at him for God knows what, and after that, people against his campaign would bitch at him, and then he'd get to his office and his candidature secretary would bitch at him for not making a good campaign, and then he'd leave and the media would bitch at him some more with their cameras and their microphones that they persisted in _shoving_ in his face…

And last but certainly not least, he would get home, and the _cat_ would bitch at him. It would meow and hiss and stare and shit and just _bitch_. Those actions, they spoke a hell of a lot louder than words.

That, sadly, was his daily routine. That, sadly, was his _life_. Interjected marginally with little walks in the park where the media stalked him some more, and the times he managed to get his hands on a precious, blessed Pal Mal and smoke the living shit out of it, but more or less, the constant bitching was his life. More or less.

Zane yawned and watched the pornography disinterestedly. He thought that the man was raping the lady. She was taking it. Bent over. In this one they were vampires, he could tell by their lewd, sharp canines and incisors. Why did they try to give these things plots? It was senseless, mindless _sex_. Dirty, foul smut that polluted the airwaves in late hours of the night where teenage boys to full-grown men watched listlessly, their hands groping at their engorged phalluses.

Zane continued to watch the program impartially, scowling slightly as he realized that his hand was still in his crotch from the ardent scratching before falling asleep.

The frown turned upside down in a mere, fluid flex of the muscles in his face. The smile was subtle, slight, but it was there. And his eyes burned, very much alive and awake, and he chuckled softly to himself.

Why not give it a go? See if all those sexless years in celibacy took away his good old masculine _pride_? Every man had it, it was deep down inside, when you were all alone, the darkness your only companion, your hand your best friend, masturbation your journey and ejaculation your final destination. The moans and sighs were the road humps, the little fantasies you entertained the pit stops at the side. But at the end, with the white stains everywhere, a small mental map was made of the night's ride, and the man held it close and held it tight, knowing that it was there, that it was secret, and that it was _his_. Each and every man was proud, _damn_ proud, and they would look over the progress of the journey with savage satisfaction.

Zane began to rub, his hand encircling his hardening staff. He wasn't getting off to the porn; he was getting off to the fact that he just _could_ get off. He grunted slightly, a violent shudder running down his spine, and his face twisted in a condescending sneer. It was solid-hard now. He began to laugh a bit, the nonchalance and arrogance growing with each chuckle. He continued to stoke it harder, faster, biting down on his lips so a cry wouldn't escape. It reminded him of a song he had liked in high school: Screaming to be the only way that I can truly be free from my fucked up realities,  
so I turn and stroke it harder, 'cause its so fun to see my face staring back at me.

This was nothing serious, just a simple test run. Couldn't let it get too out of hand, he just wanted to see if he _could_… if the car could still start, if he could remember the dance steps, if he could still hit the high notes. That sort of thing.

His back began to acquire that sensual tickling sensation, causing him to reflexively arch his back forward, pushing his hips out slightly. He twitched and shuddered, letting a throaty moan escape, and he curled in somewhat defensively and began to rub faster. His eyes were shut, tight. Ugh. He couldn't stop. He turned his head into his shoulder and began to chew on the cotton of his white shirt. His hands were racing.

"Oh… _God_…" he groaned, his tongue suddenly feeling thick and somehow too heavy for his mouth. The tingling was everywhere now; it felt like little sexually sadistic ants were running all over his skin. He fought with all of his might, all of the will power that God had given him not to let his back go forward again. Part of his mind was telling him that this still was simple test run and that there was nothing _serious_ about it, nothing _wrong_, but the cynical, _logical_ part of his brain was telling him to fuck that and that he was going to cum soon.

That notion was met with a guttural moan. Zane slowly passed tongue over his cracked lips… and a throaty chuckle escaped his tapering throat.

_Ha,_ he thought victoriously, the moans and screams of the TV in the background virtually unheard, _not only can I still_ do _it; I'm actually going to_ cum!

He decided to let his eyes crack open, to see the girl and the guy on the TV screen, screwing each other's brains out when a good couple o' years worth of semen shot out. He wanted the victory to be perfect, and though it was secret, though it was un-witnessed, he wanted the pride to be vast, to be condescending to those who thought that they could bitch at him, to compensate for all the nights like these that he never got to have over the years.

So he let his eyes ease open, and he steadied himself for the victory…

And he saw Mary looking at him severely.

He stopped stroking. He didn't cum.

"What… the _hell_…" he said through gritted teeth, his hand shooting out of his boxers. Mary did not move, but she stood boldly, looking up at him.

_Oh, jacking off, are you?_ her eyes seemed to sardonically say, _I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just came to make your life miserable._

_To judge you._

_To_ bitch _at you_.

Zane sighed. He already felt his phallus diminishing in size between his legs.

"What do you want?" he growled at Mary, getting up to go make himself a cup of coffee. He consulted his watch. One fifty-two a.m. Good stuff. He was sure had had a pack of Pal Mal in the kitchen somewhere. It would take that and all the restraint he had not to fling the cat from his apartment and into the street.

It padded along stealthily beside him, looking up at him skeptically.

_I told you already,_ it said, _I've come to make your life a living hell. No heaven for you, priest-boy. Not while you're living with me._

"Why don't you just shut up?" he snapped irritably at the cat.

_I can't shut up_ the feline retorted snottily, _because I'm not talking. I'm in your head, you've cracked and you're imagining all of this. You're a little idiot, priest-boy, who thinks you can win a senatorial election against Slaid Princeton, who this, eloquently put, is going to kick your ass._

He turned and looked at Mary.

"What are you… the cat from hell?" he scowled.

_Total contrary, priest-boy_, the cat said, licking its paw, _I'm God, and I've come to tell you that you cant jack off in the night because you're a_ priest, _and you cant win this election because you're a_ priest, _and that people are going to bitch at you for your whole life because… guess what? You're. A. Priest._ The cat stopped its licking and glared up at Zane, who was looking at Mary in pure hatred, _Any questions?_

Zane was about to open his mouth to give this cat version of 'God' some choice expletives when the phone rang.

Zane swore and fumbled hastily for the phone. Who the fuck was calling him this early in the morning? He thought that that little reporter girl could wait until the morning to press her goddamn legal charges.

He finally managed to attain purchase on the phone's handle, and he put the receiver to his ears and greeted gruffly and rather rudely, "What?"

What he heard next made him slightly frantic. It was one of the main problems he had in his brief time in the priest hood as well.

Zane Truesdale was not good with the crying people… which always made him wonder why he became a priest.

A small, breathy sob came from the other line and the person said, "Father… Father, _please_, father _please_ don't let them get me tonight, I don't _want_ to, I don't want to _play_ anymore…"

The 'please's sounded exceptionally desperate, and the voice, which Zane deduced to be a teenaged male, had adopted an eerie juvenileness that as profoundly disconcerting.

"What… who the hell-" Zane started, his groggy crossness coming before his premature instinctual priesthood reflex.

"_I don't want to play_," the voice said distraughtly. Zane could visualize a faceless, shadowy figure, hunching in a corner, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, convulsively pulling at their hair.

All that Zane could construe was that this person was resolved in their desire to not participate in some game. He hoped to God this wasn't a prank caller fucking with his head. Not this early in the morning.

_But this person actually sounds_… Zane started, and he felt his face contort in extreme concern. He wasn't able to finish the sentence.

"What do you not want to play?" Zane tried to say as gently as possible, his hands beginning to fiddle with the pages of the phonebook. He felt Mary's tail brush his ankles, but he dared not give her any of his attention. An irrational fear had thieved over his sleepiness that if he afforded anything else his concentration, even _minutely_, something very, very bad was going to happen to this little boy.

A particularly loud sob.

"No…" the boy moaned, "_NoOoOoOoO…_"

Zane felt his heart begin to beat, and his throat was beginning to close for the second time that night.

"What's happening?" Zane said urgently, "What's your name? What do you not want to play?"

"_Father!_" he screamed softly, the tears finally causing his voice to crack. His voice had still retained its uncanny puerility, which gave Zane goose bumps, "They… they're gonna get me and make me _play_-"

"You have to tell me what-" Zane nearly yelled.

"_I'm a little teapot, short and stout_," the boy whispered with a childish sing-song voice that made Zane's blood crawl, "_here is my handle… here is my stout…_"

"You're not making any sense!" Zane fussed, anxiously wringing his hands. His eyes nervously darted about the room.

"Why don't _you_ play a game with me?" the boy asked quietly, the despondency in his voice incredibly potent, "Why don't you-"

"_You little fuck!_" someone said hoarsely from the background. The boy screamed, and a thud was heard. Zane's eyes widened, and he was clutching the receiver so much that his knuckles had gone stark white.

" _Father!_" he shrieked, " _Father, they're going to make me play-_"

The line went dead. Zane stood there, the dial tone in his ear, and the sighs and moans of the ongoing pornography serving as white noise.

He shakily replaced the phone in its cradle and went to go find some Pal Mal's to smoke off what had just happened.

**Hm. End seemed a little watered. Oh well.**

**I love Mary. Haha, don't you?**

**I have a small policy: if you hit it, review it. Simple. I accept anonymous ones. Just tell me what you think. I want to know.**

**Its 1:12 a.m. I've been writing this since around nine.**

**Hardest part, you say? Not the masturbation, but the phone convo. Son of a whore, that phone convo was. Gr.**

**And yes, Zoe dearest, I went with my little crazy idea and I made Zane a priest. Not like how we giggled about it like idiots, but I made him a priest because him with the priest outfit with the little cross is just really sexy for some odd reason…**

**Well, whatever. Expect chapter two soon… I hope sweatdrops.**

**Ja-neeeeeeeeee.**

**Ki-chan/Evanescent Whisper/ Kenny/ Sunshine/ Keena/ Keens/ Goth Girl #1 (sweatdrops urg, Craig…) **


	2. Skeletons In My Closet

**Well, it's back and just a couple days after the first chapter. I sat, watched some Samurai Champloo (last three episodes) and my throat got a bit tight. Oh, and I saw the one where Jin got himself a little girl friend. Heh… cute.**

Wanna watch my Full-Metal Alchemist but the battery on my DVD player is low, so I'm going to write this instead.

**I'm surprised I started chapter two so soon, fics I really like normally never get updated and just take up memory on my dying computer (Convalescence: Servitude is a living, breathing _rotting_ example of this… is it Rosiel? Lol). Anyways, yeah…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own GX or Thrice… I cant even remember the last time I saw Vheissu, actually… or an episode of GX… my God, that's sad…**

**Always for Zo-chan. We came, we saw, we shat.**

But things cant be as they seem, I'm so far from hope This must be another dream, but my eyes are open 

_Thrice_

A crisscrossed pattern shadowed a young teen's face as he squirmed uncomfortably in the confessionary stall. His hair was plastered almost dependently to his forehead in dark, upside down question marks, and he was consistently swiping at the beads of sweat trickling down his ashen face.

Many adolescents went through this nervous ritual every time Mass was held. Sitting beneath the steely, merciless stare of Father Zane and divulging secrets things that one wouldn't even tell their best friend was highly unnerving… and the cold and calculating and swift way he voiced his opinions on the idiocy of their acts often made them tremble. It was never anything personal, anything targeting, but it was so very _swift_ and _demanding_, the tone of his voice itself was so… foreboding. Threatening.

And the worse was, he was never light on the language.

Zane took in a deep breath, but did not look at the boy. He didn't know if they all noticed, but he never quite looked at them… it was usually straight ahead to the wooden walls, or he afforded them a judgmental, concise glare at one or two points in the conversation. There was an art in correcting these idiots… yes, idiots. He believed that the world was going to die in the hands of this generation, and he spared them no kind words or looks when he advised them… he didn't feel like one of them running him over when he had a walker crossing the street in the next forty years. He wanted to avoid that by imparting 'kind words of wisdom'…

And if he got run over, he would know in death or inevitable paralysis that they didn't appreciate his counsel and that they just hated him… and that would be his fault. He preferred the latter than the former.

"Well, it was friggen stupid of you to steal all that money from your teachers' desk," Zane began with paternal harshness, "to buy some cigarettes, which really are just killing you… do you know that it takes eleven minutes off of your detestable, insignificant life every time you put that shit to your lips and suck it in like it's the best damn thing on earth? I don't know who you are trying to impress because you're just going to _die_-"

Zane internally sighed… who was _he_ to lecture any one on smoking?

_Do as I say, not as I do._

The teen whimpered, his hand a quaking, knotted ball on his lap. He was swinging his legs, and they made obnoxious 'thuds' against the wooden base of his seat.

"- and that girl that you saw it so damn cool to tongue, well, she could have had AIDS or something like that, and just wanted an easy screw so she could call it a day and run off and tell all her little girlfriends- who are totally unawares, mind you- that she scored a hot piece of ass. We're living in a selfish world-"

Another snivel.

"- _in a selfish world_ where everyone just wants a piece of ass and a shit load of money… look at what's on that brainwashing shit of a machine you call a T.V…. isn't that all that's on it?"

The boy whimpered again, unsure of what to say. Zane sighed impatiently. Time for the look…

He let his eyes snap to the confessor, ensuring just the right amount of corrective loathing was iced into his gaze.

" _Well, isn't it_?" he growled pointedly. He followed a nervous gulp down the boy's long and acne-ridden throat as he nodded; an earnest up and down moronic shake of the head… that probably had no brains in it.

He let his eyes return to its former place boring an invisible whole in the confession booth's wall. As he said, there was an art to this job…

"Well, for penance, just say as many Hail Mary's as you see fit… no, don't look at me like that."

Zane stopped in his guidance because he knew that the boy was looking at him as though he was insane, as though he had lost it. They all went through this every time, but he knew that they all gave him that same look every time he finished bash their youthfully essential habits.

"Listen, kiddo," he began, "rattling a prayer you probably don't know you're saying because you've memorized it so long ago isn't really going to help the fact that you're a rather light fingered squirt that's sub-consciously basking in a conformist, suicidal society or that you're just too horny and feel the need to grab at every girls' ass that passes you by… _you_ have to sit down with yourself and realize that you're a jackass man-whore that thinks filling your lungs up with smoke is friggen _gnarly_- is that the word they're using these days?"

Zane let his eyes wander to the boy again questioningly. The boy swallowed and slowly nodded, afraid to tell the celebrant that the word had been out-dated for a few decades. Zane continued in his divine correction.

""Well, I don't give shit from up my ass, the thing is, you have to make yourself change. A million Hail Mary's or Our Father's or Mysteries aren't going to change you… you are. You're the only one that can make you a better person, and that what the Father… no, not me and not Father Herman, the _Big Man_- _that's_ what he was looking for at the end of the day. That's what's going to determine whether you watch your ass roast in hell or if you get up _there_-" Zane, without giving the boy a glance, shot his index finger upwards in a sort of impatient, irate stabbing gesture.

"So, little man, any goddamn questions, excuse the pun? Anything else you feel like confessing to?"

The boy hurriedly shook his heads, eager to get out of the booth and get on home. He felt like he was going to piss himself.

"Well, go on home then, and tell your mother I send my blessings and condolences to her sick father… wait, you did say you were the last person in line to confess, right?"

The boy was about to exit the stall when he cast a frightened look over his shoulder to Father Zane. The door was already partially open.

"I was, but now there's an old-ish dude waiting outside… uh, 'by Father Zane."

Zane frowned. It was confession for the _younger_ people of the congregation now; the elder people of the church already had their time with him (in which his advice was a lot less critical, he had to admit to himself). Who was waiting outside for him _now_? He wanted to go home, see if he could catch some wrestling or some semi-interesting shit that was on the cable at this god-accursed prime-time hour…

"Yeah, bye Yuji, keep your nose clean, and remember what I told you…"

Yuji left the booth somewhat fearfully after the farewells were exchanged. Zane scowled and fingered his cross that lay heavily against his chest. It captured the waning light of the candles that faintly illuminated the church, causing it to glint slightly.

_Who wanted to bug him now_?

He swore when the individual slid into the booth and sniffed haughtily.

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?"

"Good evening to you as well, _Father_ Zane," Slade sneered, looking amusedly at Zane. The priest's hands were balled on separate knees, and he was glaring full on at his contender for senatorial office.

"You do look so very _nice_ in your work attire, _Father_," Slade pressed, intentionally emphasizing the last word. He snickered, "But you wouldn't guess you were a priest from your mouth… such bad language. Can get you in trouble, one day, that mouth of yours _Father_ Truesdale… I heard you impart you wisdom to that little boy… so _touching_-"

"Shut the hell up," Zane snarled. Slade raised a hand to his mouth in mock offense.

"Oh, Zane," he said with flat, sardonic melodrama, "How you break my heart so… have _mercy_-"

"What do you _want_?" Zane asked with deceitful patience. Slade's sneer disappeared from his face, and the hilarity balked from his eyes. It melted into an expression of contempt that Slade reserved just for Zane, and his voice slipped into a business like manner, "Actually, I came to apologize for that call that you received earlier on this morning."

Zane started to feel an unfathomable fist of rage swell in his chest… a sensation that only accompanies great enmity and hatred.

"It was _you_!" he snarled with hateful accusation. Slade gave a derisive, elaborate sigh and raised his hands as if in supplication. Zane was unaware if he was mocking his job or not.

"I just _came_ to _say_," Slade said, his voice adopting a tone of false umbrage, "that I _apologize_ for the _call_ you received, and that I don't want you to _think_ that it was _me_, and I just came to enforce _healthy_ and _fair_ competition, and I wanted you to _know_ that I would rather _die_ than fight dirty with you."

Zane's face twisted in disgust at the singsong, roller coaster manner Slade's voice had attained.

"Better drop dead before God's strikes you down, Slade," Zane said scathingly, "after all, everyone knows you love to campaign dirty… I just never thought you would stoop so low as to wake me up in the early hours of the morning-"

Slade's face darkened, and he managed to come across as awfully sinister with the way the shadows of the crisscrossed window cast the dark and light shades on his face, and his goatee and glossy black hair added all the menace that something from only your deepest, darkest dreams could have.

"It wasn't me," he snapped, all sarcastic good-humor absent from his voice now. It was just hard and unfeeling, and if those teens had heard it, they wouldn't have given a second thought before peeing themselves.

"Then who was it?" Zane asked challengingly, his dark eyes narrowing distrustfully.

"If you must know, it was my younger brother, Chazz," Slade said, casting a look down to his perfectly manicured fingernails. He looked haughty, as if he was too important to be sitting down and explaining this to Zane.

"You have a _brother_?" Zane said disbelievingly.

"Oh, big bad Slade doesn't strike you as the type to have siblings?"

"Too be honest with you, I think that if your parents had spawned any more kids, you'd've eaten them all up like the greedy bitch that you are by now."

Slade's eyes narrowed and his voice became frigid, and he continued along as though Zane had not spoken.

"My brother is in dire need of psychological treatment, I'm afraid. He has been admitted and has attended many therapists in the past, but it has just come to our attention that more tests are to be conducted on him before he can be considered undamaging to society."

Zane snickered.

"You got a crack pot little brother that called me one in the morning to refresh my recollections of nursery-rhymes?" Zane asked dryly, "Oh yeah, Slade, this is a riot, don't let the press get a hold of _this_-"

"Actually," Slade said, his trademark sneer growing on his face once again, "It is part of my campaign… you know… 'If senator, mentally ill patients will be treated to new rights and undergo treatment with new and phenomenal technology not yet introduced to mental hospitals… my younger brother, Chazz Princeton, is a victim of the tragedy of psychological illness…' " Slade cocked his head and smiled, "That sort of thing."

Zane shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"You dirty little shit," he said softly, "Exploiting your brother's illness to help your campaign…"

Slade leaned in, and said softly, his words dripping venom, "I'm sure you understand my desire to win, Zane, I'm sure you understand more than _anyone _that I will do _anything_ it takes to win…" Slade abruptly pulled away, the scent of his expensive, brand cologne ghosting to the normal musty air of the church. The fervor in Slade's eyes had held Zane, and he believed what Slade said, he believed that Slade would do whatever it took to win, absolutely _anything_…

Zane was silent.

"But I didn't come to tell you that, now did I, _Father_," he said, returning his gaze to his nails, "I have just come to tell you really that big bad Slade hasn't gone that low yet-"

Zane noticed that his eyes attained a certain shiftiness and insincerity in his next statement that he thought was very noteworthy, "-and that I have everything under control with my brother. You wont be receiving any calls like that again."

Zane stared curiously at Slade, documenting his discomfort and the way his eyes uneasily slid from left to right.

"I don't give a rat's ass about your brother, Slade," Zane said, adding finality to the conversation, by stepping out of the confessional booth and smoothing the wrinkles in his uniform. Slade also exited, shooting Zane a gaze that could have withered an iron rod. Zane smiled wryly, and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, Slade, I have to fulfill my duties as _Father_ by closing the church."

_Have everything under control my ass,_ Zane thought as he watched Slade's retreating back. _You sound like a man with something to hide, Slade… like every politician._

Another voice, this one more malevolent and sinister, piped up in the recesses of Zane's mind.

_Even you, Zane. Even_ you _have your dirty little skeletons in the closet…_

"Shut up," Zane said under his breath, his hands tightening around his cross as he followed Slade's progress to the door, "shut the hell up."

The voice died just as Slade turned on his heel and said with a dry, thin smile, "Good luck in the election, Zane… you know, you'll need it."

Zane took in a breath as he proceeded to blow out a candlelight from the altar.

"Keep your luck, Princeton," he retorted, "I'm a strong believer, and I don't need whatever it is you have to offer… I have God."

Zane said that with the same lack of sincerity Slade had held in his gaze while ensuring Chazz's safety. If you had merely heard him, you wouldn't have thought him to be a priest at all with the lack of conviction in his statement.

Zane supposed Slade's retort to his refusal of his well wishes was the reverberating slam of the chapel's oak doors.

Zane looked up, and said softly to particularly no one.

"If I have nothing left to live for, then why am I finding it so hard to turn to you?"

Well, I'm really pissed off. I was typing so well, and I was I in the zone and everything up until '"I don't give a rat's ass about your brother, Slade,"' and then I had to go eat because I would be an anorexic little freak if my aunt and they didn't make me go eat… well, not anorexic in the sense that I would deliberately starve myself but more of that I would simply forget to eat… as I have done on many occasions -sweatdrops-. So I had to go eat porridge and bread and watch my cousin watch High School Musical. I think I nearly brought back up my dinner, I was like 0.0 "This isn't happening… I doubt television has gotten so desperate as to air something like _this_." I felt traumatized and robbed of my right to live a normal, unblemished, untainted existence…

…Or something to that effect.

**Well, I want to keep Chazz dearest for next chapter. You find out more about Zane next chapter and what influenced him to be a priest. **

… **God, that sentence sounded so strange. I'm serious, go back and read it aloud to yourself and, like, think.**

**Well, I'm going to go see if I can start the third chapter of this accursed little thing. I didn't mean for my endnote to be so long, but I just feel chatty today. It's probably the tea I had at Zo's house. **

**Well, ja-ne, and thank you to my reviewers –looks at my two reviewers-. And thank you to the one that put this on a favorites list –looks pointedly at reviewer that _didn't_ put this on their favorites list-… I nearly died of happiness. ii**

**That's also something a thought I'd never say… oh well. Till next chappie.**

**Ki-chan/Evanescent Whisper/ Kenny/ Sunshine/ Keena/ Keens/ Goth Girl #1 (-sweatdrops- urg _Craaaigg_…) **


	3. Hospice Hostility

**I wont need a pre-author note with how long the mini-rant at the end of this chappie is going to be. So brace yourself, read, hope you enjoy, and ciao until the A/N at the end. Song has been translated from its original German.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own GX. I don't own Rammstein –sadly looks at the cake in my head dancing with Priest Zane to 'Du hasst'-**

**Dedicated to Cupid… yesterday I washed THE satanic blender. Yes… THE satanic blender from the 'chocolate and peanut butter' milkshake…**

_We share a room and bed_

_Brother dear, come and be so kind_

_Brother dear, come touch me_

_Slide closely to me_

_In front of the bed, a black hole_ _and every sheep falls inside_

_I am already too old, yet still count them_ _because I cannot sleep_

_Under the navel, in the branches_ _a white dream is already waiting_

_Brother dear, come hold tightly_ _and shake the leaves from the tree for me_

_Play a game with me_

_Give me your hand and play with me a game_

_Play with me a game_

_Play with me because we are alone_

_Play with me a game_

_Father Mother Child_

_Dear brother's hand hurts_

_He turns to the wall again_

_The brother helps me now and then_ _so that I can sleep_

_Play a game with me_

_Give me your hand and play with me a game_

_Play with me a game_

_Play with me because we are alone_

_Play with me a game_

_Father Mother Child_

Humans naturally feel a vapid incongruence when unconsciousness steals into their minds. Everything bleeds into quiet lull, a gentle sway, the way the breeze is before the turn of any season. There is the remotest soft, docile and somewhat childish, like auguries of infantile innocence, before any dream or nightmare. The innocence, like life itself, is stolen as the dream progresses… the cataleptic decadence of reverie embraced with placid sadomasochism. Dreams are future aspirations and nightmares are often past mistakes, but each of them eats voraciously at our present state of comatose virginity. It is shown by the toss or turn in your cover, or the betraying smile of bliss that graces our peaceful faces. It lives in the sweat that trickles down your face, or the help that you cry out for that no one can give you unless you are pulled with inconsiderate spite into the living, breathing world where, despite the fact that it is a divinely blended lurid nightmare and gratifying dream, there is hardly any innocence left to consume. But until then, we are left to bask in the satirical self-harm of sadistic imaginings.

Father Zane gave a particularly violent turn in his eiderdown, and the first perfidy of slumber committed as he uttered a name.

"Syrus…"

His face was pulled into its habitual frown, but something about it seemed fearful, its features slipping into a curvature of confusion and poignant antipathy.

"Syrus… don't… leave…"

He curled slightly, and his eyes squinched as he closed them tighter, as he shut them harder against the real world. Mary watched him patiently, her tail swishing back and forth. It was like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, timing his rest.

An owl's hoot mingled into the strident silence of the night as Zane grimaced and his hands clenched around his comforter. He murmured something else that was just completely incoherent, before his muscles relaxed.

His face was still taut with its fearful scowl, but the rest of his body did seem less tense.

Mary inwardly sighed as she went to go find something to eat. She paused as she heard a soft cry.

This is usually where he would wake up. He would mumble the ritual last sentence before he shot out of his covers. Mary turned her head and tolerantly surveyed her master.

His face twisted in bleak rage, but his voice seemed juvenile as he mumbled his final sentence of sleep.

"Please… don't… hurt… him…"

By the time he had gotten to 'hurt', she had left the room. She didn't want to intrude on what would now be his conscious sorrow.

-!I!I!I!I!I!I!I!-

"_Zane, what you don't seem to understand is that you're a priest, and that can seriously assist your crusade. It's the one thing you have over Slade, so I suggest that you use it…_ _I know your not good with hospitals, honey, but this is one way to show the public that compassion is needed in the office and that you're their man…so go and pray for those sick people. Play our Priest Card. I know you can do it."_

Zane sighed as he looked at the directory of floors in the foyer of the hospital. His secretary really didn't know anything, did she?

The hospice itself stank of the queer, faint smell of the old, unwashed bed sheets and that horrifically prevalent scent of medication.

Now that he thought about it, if he used his blessed 'Priest Card', it made him no better than Slade with his younger brother. He cast a bit of a guilty look at the bible in his hand. It was hard to find people that did love God these days and weren't just exploiting his compassion for their selfish desires. He was a priest and he knew that he was supposed to redirect the stray lambs that thought like that…

But now he himself felt like a black sheep, away from the rest of the blasphemously stark herd, left to sin and wallow in selfish misery that was the only thing left that they had to horde to themselves.

It had been a day since Slade had caught him in the chapel. Since then, he had been unusually insubstantial and a bit shaky. He had splurged on cigarettes at the corner store, and every time he felt as though the invisible irksome thing of life was too much to take, he would melt away to somewhere, a quiet corner, and he would wedge a cigarette between that habitually present scowl and take another eleven minutes off of his life. It was his escape. He refused to be the cliché priest and turn to the bottle. Too overdone. He was going out in style. He was going to slowly smoke himself to his grave.

Zane became like this every time he felt his faith was wavering. It would peak and then just burst every once in a while, leaving him to shudder slightly in a dark corner until he thought the world was good enough to face once more. It was a psychological thing, almost like a diluted anthropophobia of the mind. But of course, a mask of patronizing knowledge and blatant perfectionism always veiled the fear he had felt. That he was feeling. And he glued the mask firmly to his face, and clutched it there for dear life. Ever since Syrus left, he had felt ugly, and he didn't want anyone to see him. He just wanted God to mould him and to make him how he was before everything.

But he would never tell anyone any of this. Those were the thoughts for the innermost sanctums of his conscience. He resumed in his routine scowling while his eyes scanned the layout of the hospital floors. He wanted somewhere without the medications, the life support, the dying people…

The crying people.

He was just about to deem every floor in the sanatorium totally intolerable when some one tapped him on the shoulder. He grunted.

"Father, have you come to pray for the ill and wounded?"

Zane turned and faced the woman. She was tall with long, chestnut hair and dressed in a nurses uniform which hugged her stately and effeminate curves.

Her eyes were wide and knowing, blue, and as Zane peered into hem, he was almost shocked to see himself, scowling and slightly curious, rudely gaping back at him from their sapphire depths.

"Um… yes I am, Miss…"

His eyes flicked to the identification card above her breast. It was rude to stare.

"Rhodes."

She looked at her nametag and laughed. "I forget that's there sometimes," she said good-naturedly. Her eyes then returned to the cleric and she frowned slightly, for just a brief moment… and then her smile returned and she said warmly, "This hospital is very easy to get lost in. Why don't you let me show you to a floor, Father… it always pleases me when someone from the church comes to pray for these people, I try to help in any way I can-"

"Thanks," he said, and he felt a nice, genuine smile spreading like warm, melted butter over his face. Maybe the day wasn't going to be so miserable after all.

Miss Rhodes frowned pensively as she gazed into Zane's eyes and asked him where he wanted to go.

"The children's ward is often a favorite with the clergy members-"

Zane gasped as though someone pitched iced cold water on him. A queer sensation washed over him that made him feel bleak, desolate, but agonizingly frozen all at once. A small splinter of torridly glacial fear staked his heart in that one moment, and it seemed as though the bit of raw and powerful anger he felt along with the sadness fused his soul to the very air itself outside of him, causing his head to buzz.

He saw Syrus in that brief moment.

"No… no, thanks," he choked. He felt his hand reflexively reach for his pocket, and when he found that it was empty, angrily tighten around the bare box that had once held some cigarettes. His mouth suddenly felt very dry.

God, he wanted a smoke…

Miss Rhode's eyes became slightly worried for a moment, and then she said, "You know what? Follow me, and we'll just pick a ward, okay?"

"Can we just avoid one with hurting people… you know, people on life support and stuff… actually sick people?" Zane said this as though there were a ward constructed specifically for those that were feigning illness.

"I'll see what I can do, Father," she said distractedly as she took a outstretched clipboard from and employee while passing by. The chocolate haired doctor called after her as she continued pacing, and Zane had to speed up his step to keep up with her.

"Goddamn screwed ones in the psych ward, sis, thought you should take care of it. One of them is real quiet, his family said that they'd be here in a while, but till then you'd better talk to him or somethin-"

"Don't worry, Atticus, I'll handle it," she said loudly, cutting him short and waving a dismissive hand. Her eyes then began to examine the record on the board, and she chewed on the end of a pencil while she strolled and read, bumping into people and muttering half-hearted apologies every now and then while Zane looked curiously around to the patients and medical staff, still frowning. He didn't come in hospitals much. He didn't like them, he tried to stay away from them, but as he was here, he might as well try to take in what it looked like. After all, he wouldn't know when next he would see the interior and paradoxically bustling dying life of one. He just knew that it wouldn't be too soon.

After about another minute of strolling ascending a few staircases, Nurse Rhodes finally broke the silence.

"You know what, Father?" she mumbled a bit idly as her eyes dashed down the profile on the clipboard, "You can come with me to the psych ward… I don't think there's 'actually sick people' there, as you so eloquently put it…"

She abruptly stopped at a fairly large, white double door that swung to the inside, and turned the page of the clipboard to look at more patient records. Over the door, brass letters were nailed to spell the words: Ward Five, Psychological Ward.

"Come on," she said as she pushed open the doors and jerked her head, signaling for him to enter, "I'm sure you need to get back to church in time for afternoon Mass and I have a lot of other people to look at today. Chop-chop." But then she made no move to go inside, and she reclined slightly on the open doors to curiously study him, and her smile hadsuddenly turned itself around.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her eyes seemed calculating but slightly confused, her smile was not angry but lost. She shook her head.

"No, it's just you look familiar, as though I've seen your face around before…"

_Oh, wow, you think? After all, there are flyers of me everywhere… 'Zane For Senator'…_

"I've never seen you in my whole life," Zane said frankly as he strolled into the ward, and he heard the door slam shut behind him as Alexis followed.

His secretary wanted him to go pray for people to promote his campaign… too bad half of the people didn't know he was running because they didn't know he existed… no wonder he was so behind in the polls… Of course, he got that 'I feel like I've seen you before' already. In the beginning, he would tell people, 'Yeah, I'm running for senator', but then it became far too tedious. If they didn't knew who he as, screw it. He didn't care. Let him stay that way… after all, the Bible said that ignorance was bliss, and who was he to take away their joy?

"Got some screwy ones today," Miss Rhodes muttered behind him, and she made him jump. Her voice had been curiously magnified and it resounded in the ward, and it had broken the cadence of their reverberating footsteps. The celebrant was afraid to admit that what the nurse said had a point.

Patients at their sides huddled in their rooms behind mirrored glass. Some of the sat and rocked back and forth, some of them curled up on their beds.

But all of them had the same desolate look, gave the same poignant, captivating stare that caused their entire countenance to appear emaciated as though time had completely ravaged it. It was unduly morbid and melancholic; to see the dull and wasted gazes they gave. Everything about their stares seemed a bit clueless as they looked out to the hall in which he and the nurse were walking. They didn't know if people were out there, they only saw their own reflections, their eyes wide like a deer stuck in headlights.

"Those windows… mirrored glass… so that means they can't see us, right?"

"That they are, Father, they wouldn't know if we were all running around with our heads on fire out here…"

Her mouth was still moving but Father did not hear her… Zane began to have a dubious distrust to the woman's assurances when he saw one patient in particular.

The boy had black spiky, black hair and unnaturally pale skin, and his dark, tired eyes glared disdainfully outwards, framed by sleepless shadows as dark as bruises. His hands were balled at his sides, but as they were passing, he raised one hand and smirked, a confident and terrifying smirk, and he twiddled his fingers in a wave.

Zane stopped in his tracks and looked at the boy. How could he see them-

"Father, you said you were going to come here and pray! What are you standing there gaping at?"

Zane turned and Miss Rhodes has her hands on her hips. She was looking at him confusedly.

"Hn," he grunted as he turned to the boy who had been waving. There was as good a place to start as any. The raven-haired teen had retreated to a corner of his room, and he was seated cross-legged on the floor, calmly reading the morning papers.

Zane entered the room.

"Hello the name of the Father," he greeted, closing the door behind him. The boy's eyes leered at him over the papers and he said quite coldly, "I don't believe in God."

Zane stopped and gritted his teeth, feeling the old annoyance stealing on. Why did people persist in making his job so fucking hard…

"Well… just hello then," Zane tried patiently as he took out his Rosary and flipped to a psalm in the Bible. He couldn't swear now, couldn't have impure thoughts, he had consecrated items in his hands and he was about to impart God's divine wisdom-

"Well, then, why are you here?" the dark-haired teen bristled, folding the papers and resting them aside to give Zane his undivided attention, "If I told you I don't believe in God, then why are you still here?" Zane made the sign of the cross. Impure thought number one: the thought of him violently swearing at this boy to just let him do his job.

His exterior remained indifferent though, and he said diplomatically, "If you give me a reason that you don't believe in God- a good reason, mind you, then I will obligingly leave you the hell alone."

The boy folded his arms and said spitefully, "Well, Father Zane, I stopped believing in God two nights ago… I thought he would help me, just that one time… but you wouldn't care, and I don't feel like telling the story, so…"

Zane cocked his head in one of his rare moments of confusion.

"How do you know my name-"

"You know, you really shouldn't be here, praying for the brother of your rival, Slade Princeton… you know, it might give the media the wrong impression if they get a hold of it…"

He then gave a pointed look to a security camera in the corner of the room. Zane swore . He didn't remember the sign of the cross.

"So, you're the infamous Chazz," he sneered, resting aside his bible and rosary. Wouldn't be any praying for this dweeb.

"You know, you should leave before my brothers get here," Chazz reiterated forcefully. He leaned over to grab his newspaper again, blocking his face.

"I want to know why you woke me up at two in the morning!" Zane said, his eyes boring a hole from the newspaper to Chazz.

_Zane, you were already up, and you were masturbating to… God,_ what _were you masturbating to…_

Zane shooed away the thought to the small niche in his mind from which it had originated. For argument's sake, he wasn't up already. Chazz woke him up. Everything was Chazz's fault.

Zane heard an exasperated sigh from behind the papers. They were lowered, and Chazz was giving him a look that clearly said that he was bored with him.

"Father Zane," he drawled, "as you can see, I'm highly unstable, a mentally ill patient…" His words contrasted violently with the way he tranquilly turned the page, his eyes flickering over its headlines, "I need rest or I might bite your head off. Blow up downtown. Stalk you and kill your family-"

"Hey," Zane growled. Chazz turned the page and looked up at Zane, eyebrows arching slightly. He knew he had hit a nerve. He continued in his perfectly disgusted tone of voice, "My brothers are going to be here shortly and they wont be happy to see you…" he trailed off as something over Zane's shoulder held his gaze. The incensed frown on his face flexed into a supercilious smirk.

"Oh, well," he said airily, "Cant say I didn't tell you so." He turned the page. Zane knew behind him from the time he heard the sleazy, cold voice.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Zane turned his head and gave Slade a sardonic smile. "Well, look at who's on who's stumping ground now, Slade?"

A man stood next to Slade with his arms folded, and he was casting a scornful, uncompassionate look at Chazz. He was an exceptionally comely man, with ivory like skin and his dark hair slicked back. Chazz readily returned his gaze, the hate in it matched wholly.

Slade's face began to redden.

"I told you that you wouldn't get any calls or anything like that from him again, Father, doesn't that appease any debt I have for disturbing you at all? I told you I'll handle it-"

"Chill out, brother, I hardly told him anything-" Chazz said flatly to Slade, but he was still staring odiously at his other brother.

"You stay out of this, you ingrate!" Slade yelled, his eyes snapping to Chazz. The other Princetons paid him no mind. It was if they were in their own world, their continual glaring their only nutrient, suppliant and oxygen to survive in the universe they had created with their clear hatred for each other.

"Listen," Zane began, "I'm not in the mood for trouble, all I really want is a pack of cigarettes, I'll leave if you-"

"I don't want you around my brother, do you hear me Truesdale!" Slade continued to rave. His eyes were flickering nervously around, and Zane began to see the faint bulge of a vein in Slade's neck. He compulsively raised his hand and tightened his tie.

"Okay, I understand-" Zane said, lifting his hands defensively. Slade was beginning to piss him off.

"No, you don't understand," Slade said cold, his hands smoothing at his hair as he sneered at Zane, "After all, Father, your brother is dead." Zane's eyes narrowed, and he said slowly and quietly, "How do you know that?"

"It's my job to know these things," Slade said, pacing over to Chazz's bed and sitting himself on in a genteel fashion as though he were a king, "I even saw the transcripts of all the investigatory interviews, how you blamed yourself for the death and rape of your little Syrus, or, for direct quotation, your 'little bro'-"

Slade stopped when Zane angrily shot up, storming to the door of the room.

"Leaving without these, Father?" Slade said mockingly, holding up the bible and rosary.

Zane turned, and if one was watching, you would have somehow seen all the patience and tolerance and screws that held him together just leave his body and disappear.

"Get your little Satan hands off of it," Zane snarled, lunging at Slade.

He really believed Slade was the devil. Slade was Satan, and his cat was Jehovah. Hallelujah, praise the lord, because they were both turning his life into a living hell, Slade more at the moment than Mary…

Slade let out a startled scream as Zane dived for him, and his face became disfigured in a shocked snarl as he held the bible and rosary above his head, his wide eyes peering at Zane. The priest landed on top of Slade, and the bible and rosary flew out of his hands. Zane began to punch Slade, driving his hand into his abdomen, into his face, into his chest. Zane didn't stop even when he saw that Slade's nose had become mangled and bloodied. His knuckles gleamed and glistened crimson with Slade's blood as he repeatedly drove his fist into Slade's clearly broken nose.

"St… Stob!" he sputtered as he too punched Zane with flailing fists in his back.

Zane did stop, but only because he was disentangled from Slade by the other Princeton, the brother whose name he didn't know. Now the blunette was looking at the individual who had interrupted him, breathing heavily like a winded bull, and the pale-skinned man gazed evenly back.

Just as the tension in the room had reached its peak, the door opened and a shrill, female shriek was heard. The sound of the tinkling of broken tableware.

"What happened in here!" the nurse screamed softly. Her wide and horrified eyes were on the rumpled sheets and Slade's bloody nose.

Echoing, running footsteps were heard, and just then, Miss Rhodes too was in the door frame, and her hand as raised to her mouth.

"Mindy, what happened…" she said softly.

"Well," the man who had accosted Zane began, "Father Zane saw it fit to assault my brother-"

"Jagger, drob it," Slade said, rising from the bed and wiping at his nose with his sleeve. Alexis' eyes widened, and she said shakingly, "I wouldn't have let you him in here if I knew who he was, Mr. Princeton…"

"No harmb dun, Alexis," he said thickly, and he gave her what he tried to make the most charming smile through the torrent of blood that ran from his nose into his goatee. Her eyes wandered to Zane, and she said, "I don't like people who come in the hospital to make trouble… I thought you were visiting these patients to listen to their suffering and try to help ease it… Most obviously I was wrong." She pointed to the door with her thumb and inclined her head marginally in its direction. "Get out."

Zane was scowling at her…

Possible headlines in the tabloid tomorrow began to stand out vividly in his mind:

Father Zane Strikes Contender For Senate, Slade Princeton-

Angry Priest At It Again-

Zane was hardly conscious when he slowly shuffled out of the room, his eyes not seeing anything, him not hearing anything. Everyone in the room was glaring at him. His hand once again reached for his pocket and it drew back as if the empty cigarette packet had been hot. The silence seemed to have an angry buzz to it.

But there was one more headline that stood out the most. It was vivid and red, with scary, bold capital letter. It brought on worse anger and nausea and tired indifference than the others…

Probably because it had actually been a headline.

Teen Found Raped and Unconscious in Alley. Warded In Hospital, Critical Condition.

Zane kept his eye focused on the hall, which was the faint sliver of outside between the shoulders of Nurse Alexis and Mindy. He wasn't aware that Slade had rudely thrust his bible and rosary into his hand while he was walking.

It had become slow, foreboding, his walk; it was the walk of someone going to be executed, and he mumbled an "Excuse me," so Mindy and Alexis would get out of his way. He held his breath and was about to step through the door when Chazz stopped the silence.

"You don't believe in God either, Father," he said matter-of-factly, and he finally broke the mental war between himself and Jagger by blocking his face with the newspaper once more. But before it covered his eyes, Zane had slowly turned his head, and discreet dots of fear crept into Chazz's steely gaze. It wasn't anything that was highly perceptible, but Zane knew it was there because those dots of fear were once present in Syrus' eyes.

"You don't believe in God, Zane, you could see it in your eyes… so stop pretending."

Zane felt breath slowly drain out of him, and the swell his body again with that sentence. Everything in the room suddenly seemed vivid, colorful, like the way things appeared to you in a dreamscape.

But this wasn't a dream.

He breathed in and out. His hand reached in his pocket to pull out a smoke, he really needed it right now-

His shaking fingers closed around an empty box.

**I was on a time limit to write this chapter, that's why it came out so badly. If any of you wanted to ever see this before school re-opened, it was now or never, so I had to write the whole thing so I could get in a cab and get to a cyber café in the city and post it. It may seem watered, but I'll fix it later. Promise.**

**To my seventh reviewer, I'm sorry you feel that way. I didn't know I made Zane and they so out of character that the fic should become a story and be put on fiction press where it belongs. Because I swear, from the amount of hits and how this thing has gone up on a lot of people's alert lists, I would say that this could stay right here. Next time, how about some constructive criticism to tell me how to make them more in character than telling me to move this to another site, ok?**

**I should take this opportunity to bring two things to the public's attention… you know, things that I should high-light that I would swear I mentioned before but sort of have to reinforce… just so I can avoid a review like that from happening again…:**

**One: This is an AU. Alternate. Universe. The plot is going to have nothing to do with the show, and therefore I think I would have to make the characters slightly different because Duel Academy wasn't there to influence their lives. So, moving on to point number two…Two: I hardly get to watch GX. If I made anyone out of character, don't give me a roundabout thingy of how stupid the fic is, just tell me how to fix it, and I promise you as a writer on this site that I'll fix whatever I did wrong on the next chapter I post… -points to Slaid/Slade error in the previous two chapters-.**

**And to everyone else (this whole Post-Author Note might strike you as bitchy, but I don't intend it to be prudish. I'm sincere here) if you don't like the summary, please don't click on it. There's a difference between **

'**Everyone is a bit OOC, but the story is ok… work on what you have to to make this better' and 'Omg, I hate –so and so- pairing' or 'I hate how people make –so and so- act like their –so and so-'. If you don't like it, find something else to read that'll appease your taste.I suppose this is me taking reflexive author offense… heh, I am too proud and vain for my own good. Always say it.**… **but I'm sure you other reviewers know how I feel, right? (**

**Ki-chan/Evanescent Whisper/ Kenny/ Sunshine/ Keena/ Keens/ Goth Girl #1 **

**(-sweatdrops- CRAIG!…)**


	4. Anything It Takes To Win

**Chapter four of my insanity! More Zane OOC-ness! And hell, I probably screwed up Chazz's character with my incompetence as well! I suppose the only thing that will keep you all reading is my oh so excellent style of writing –looks confusedly at reviewers who say I'm a good writer-.**

**I'm listening to some KoRn. It was my birthday last week Tuesday… I'm fourteen! I got an I-Pod. I was like 'Yay'… and then I tried to put songs on it. My speech steadily deteriorated into foul, Zane-like language, and at the end of six hours, I had two System of A Down songs and three Killswitch songs. T.T rapture.**

**School is boring. My new subjects suck. Is there surprise in this development? **

**I realized that I really like the song 'Mr. Rogers'. And then I was like 'Oh, this song is appropriate for my fic.' I'm hoping you all are reading between the lines as to whose all fucked up in the story and why. I think I'm making it obvious. The 'Poor Chazz' reviewer, I think they know what's going on. You all can guess in your reviews… but by now I honestly think it is rather obvious as to why people are how they are. **

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are my rotting brain cells… you know, the ones that the teachers keep killing every time they walk in the classroom. As for the Bible quotes… do you have to disclaim for those? I mean, the Bible is mankind's… **

**To Zoe… I am the dominant one. The _End_.**

_Love thy neighbor as thyself_

_-Somewhere in the Bible That I Just Can't Remember Right Now_

_The time has come to realize_

_What you are, what you've done to me_

_The time has come; we'll have something to talk about_

_I will too_

_Looking back and now I realize _

_How much you really liked him, this child's mind you terrorized_

_You came to him; he really didn't know your lies_

_Now his innocence gone_

_He's that child you terrorized_

_This fucking pain that I feel, you gave to me then you_

_This fucking pain that I feel because of you_

_My childhood is gone because I loved you _

_Be my neighbor_

_Looking back and now I realize_

_How much you really loved him, this child's mind you've hypnotized_

_You came to him; you really didn't know your lies _

_And now his innocence gone_

_I'm that child you terrorized_

_This fucking pain that I feel, you gave to me then you_

_This fucking pain that I feel because of you_

_My childhood is gone because I loved you_

_Be my neighbor…_

_I thought you told me everybody was my neighbor_

_They took advantage of me like they took their turns holding me_

_I wish I would have never watched you_

_But look at in the ending they made my childhood a failure_

_What fucking neighbor_

_I hate you_

_I will too_

_Be my neighbor_

_This fucking pain that I feel…_

_My childhood is gone…_

_I will too…_

Zane cursed and rubbed his eyes as he heard knocking on the door.

The room smelled of cigar smoke. After his second confrontation with the infamous Slade Princeton, he had gone to his favorite tobacco store. He then saw it fit to graduate to cigars… why? Because he could. He had sat in his boxers in the apartment the rest of the day, smoked, cried, bitched to Mary about Syrus, and watched a Star Wars marathon. By twelve, his eyes were considerably red. By twelve-thirty, they were closed, and visions of Syrus were plaguing Zane's mind behind them.

He stumbled off the couch (which he had dubbed 'Bed of The Fuck-Up Father Zane). He had a bad headache. He tried to remember why some phone call or the other from his secretary hadn't woken him up when he realized he had pulled the phone from its outlet yesterday so he could rant and rave and smoke in peace.

_Is it just me,_ Zane thought, rubbing the five o'clock shadow growing on his face as he paced to the door, _or is it every time I meet Slade, I feel this_ dire _urge for cigarettes?_

Zane felt a torrent of bad language waiting to come out of his mouth as he opened the door to see his landlord with his big, fat orange cat standing at the door. Damn it, how could he have forgotten to pay his rent?

"Hello, Zane," the man said amiably, stroking his cat, Pharaoh. He paid no heed to his tenant's condition, but looked around Zane's apartment as though it as the most pleasant thing on earth. His eyes fell on the disconnected phone, and he frowned momentarily.

"Hello, Lyman," Zane said guiltily, and he let his eyes go to the floor. He scowled as Mary brushed past him and began to playfully pull at the hem of Lyman's pants.

_Oh, so the bitch can be playful with every one except me,_ Zane scowled. And as though Mary had heard him, she turned her head to him and said scathingly, _I'm not a bitch. I'm a cat. Goddamn it, Zane, go shave. It looks like someone shit on your face._

"Come here, you little rat," Zane growled.

Banner, on the other hand, had stooped to Mary and began to pat her affably. "Oh, I see you've joined the club as well, Zane."

Zane flushed. The only reason he had bought Mary was so she could get it on with Pharaoh. Then, Mary would have some cute little Satan kitties, he and Banner would become buddy-buddies, and he wouldn't have to pay his constantly overdue rent.

Or, at least, that was the way it went over in his head. Mary, in real life, was glaring hatefully at Pharaoh, who hat batted her playfully with his paw. Banner, unawares, was stoking her thick, dark fur.

"Uh, yes…" Zane responded in a far off tone of voice.

Lyman looked up at him, smiled, and then rose.

"Don't let Vellian see her when he comes back from his tour in Curacao… you know how he doesn't like cats. And it may spoil the _wonderful_ relationship that you two have."

There was a tone of good-natured sarcasm in Banner's voice, but Zane shuddered nonetheless. Vellian Crowler was his fruity, fashion designer of a neighbor. It was also his hatred for cats that had caused Zane to purchase Mary. For the year that Zane had moved from the monastery and lived in his penthouse apartment, Vellian had made it widely known his… _attraction_ for Zane. There were the loud solo sing-alongs to Marc Anthony and Ricky Martin in which 'she' and 'her' were replaced with 'Zane' and 'his', and the winks and the statements choc full of double entendre as they passed in the hallway.

"When… when is he coming back?" Zane managed, scooping Mary up in his arms. He had to bite back a few choice swear words as Mary dug her claws into his forearm. He had a lot of respect for Banner, and even more, he owed Banner a lot of money, and he planned to have a couth, civilized conversation with him.

"Oh, in the next few hours," Lyman said smilingly, as though it was the best fucking thing in the world. Zane's would have let his mouth fall open if at the last moment he hadn't realized that he didn't brush his teeth. He settled for letting his eyes widen in fear. Banner laughed good-naturedly.

The two men stood awkwardly in the doorway, and then two different statements flew out of their mouths at the same moment. It was Banner's words that brought out an odd reaction from Zane.

"Lyman, I'll pay the rent, just give me two weeks… you know, the campaign and everything-"

"Zane, I honesty am sorry to hear about your secretary, if there's anything I can do-"

Zane forgot that he didn't brush his teeth this morning. His mouth fell open.

"What happened to my secretary?" Zane asked, alarmed. He didn't like the look in Banner's eyes now. Usually a smiling man with kind words for everyone, even when he was bringing people to evict you, he had taken on an expression of sad solemnity that was incredibly unnerving.

Mary, as though sensing the seriousness of the situation, stopped her incessant clawing and pushing at Zane's arms and just hung limply, pressed to his firm chest by his arms.

Pharaoh meowed. Zane knew that his secretary had had asthma, but it was not anything _severe_…

"Her house… it burned down last night… they didn't get her out in time."

Zane looked at Banner in horror. His secretary was a bitch, but his secretary was a _nice_ bitch, and she was the only one in the constant bitchiness of his life that he felt that he had any sort of connection to anymore. It was not the fact that he had become so absorbed in his campaign but because that it was always trying to take him over and it had been his only company (he didn't count his gay fellow clergy members as company), and seeing as she had been the driving force behind everything, it felt as though the fifty-something year old woman was some what in charge of his life. She was pleasant, robust, and a bit nagging. Bit she was _his_ pleasant, robust, nagging bitch. She had been there from the beginning to the end, reminding him every morning or so how much he was down in the polls, or always telling him to put away those goddamn cigarettes because it wasn't good for her asthma or the image of his campaign, always bringing across casserole that tasted completely horrible on days that they would meet in his apartment to discuss strategies…

It was a business relationship, but it was a business relationship he had a sort of fondness for, like the way you got over the way your grandmother's house smelled bad and began to enjoy her frail and elderly company.

"Do… do they know…" Zane said slowly, his mouth forming the words slowly as though English was not his mother tongue.

"The fire department was not able to determine the cause of the fire, Zane," Banner said sadly, absently scratching the space between Pharaoh's eyes. They had closed, and he purred contentedly in his master's arms. Zane stood there for a few moments, and put Mary down on the ground because he felt it was the only thing he was capable of doing in a situation like this. Mary looked at the hem of Banner's pants again as though seriously debating it, but sensing the severity of the situation, retreated into the apartment so she could go and shit in a loafer or something.

Zane bit his lip.

_This is a shitty way to start of a shitty day,_ he thought, and then hurriedly slapped his hand to his mouth as a giggle nearly came out.

_Hey… that rhymes! It's a good campaign slogan… Zane For Senator: The End of Shitty Ways That Start Off Your Shitty Days._

Banner looked at him in mild concern as Pharaoh's indolent purrs broke what would have been an incredibly awkward silence. Zane felt his smile melt into his ever-present scowl behind the palm of his hand: for a campaign slogan, he needed a secretary… which brought it all back to the fact that his secretary was dead.

"Zane…" Banner began uncertainly, "I came because I know that you can get a bit out of tune with things-"

Zane hadn't moved his hand, so Lyman didn't hear the controlled snicker behind it. 'A bit out of tune with things'? Haha, what a riot. Zane was suddenly seeing the hilarity in everything: the horrible plaid of his boxers, that one of Pharaoh's eyes seemed to be slightly higher than the other, that Banner's hair wasn't combed and that there as still crusted spittle at the corner of his mouth and that _he_ probably hadn't brushed his teeth either-

"-so I figured I should have dropped by and… and let you know how things were."

Zane's hidden mouth seemed slightly bipolar: it was know flexing with the scrupulous ease of a spider's movements into a smile again. He didn't know why or what…

_My secretary is dead… my secretary is dead…_

It went on and on in his head, clanging constantly like a funeral bell rung by idiot hands. After a millisecond or so, it espoused a singsong-ness, the same way Slade's voice had gotten in the church while he mocked Zane's job, Zane's beliefs, everything Zane stood for-

But then the song stopped, and something hit him very hard in the face.

'_You don't believe in God, either, Father, so stop pretending…'_

And once more, the manic and crazed grin pressed to the soft palm of his hand dissolved into a frown.

_One Princeton is already fucking with your head, Zane,_ _don't let the actually crazy one start, or else there'll be no end to the shit-_

And all of a sudden, the 'slogan' began to blare in his head, almost on cue with the word 'shit', and _again_, his frown had turned upside down. Banner was watching him with a somewhat patient anxiety.

Zane decided that he would dub the song 'Ode To The Dead Secretary'. And he moved his hand, finally, and tried to smother the giggle that badly wanted to come forth for the song's 'catchy' title.

Forcing calm into his clipped tones, he said, "And may God and His angels guide her soul to the heavens."

Banner, looking retarded for a brief moment in his shock, let a timid smile grace his handsome face.

"Ah, yes… may her soul rest in peace."

A pithy pause, then-

"But… how did you know, Lyman?"

Banner's smile had suddenly become wan and thin and he said it in a happy voice that paled in comparison to his tone of voice when genuinely glad, "What, besides it being all over the news? Well, your new secretary was trying to get onto you, and apparently you had disconnected your phone-"

Comprehension dawned upon Zane.

_So_ that's _why he was looking around my apartment when he knocked…_

"-so he ended up calling me, your landlord, because your mobile phone is almost always off, as demonstrated this morning when he tried to contact you. So I just came to tell you that he wants you to meet him at Huffington's, and he wanted me to ask if you knew where it was-"

Zane's frown was occupying more and more space on his face as more and more words came from Lyman Banner's mouth.

"Of course I know where Huffington's is, I used to carry Syrus there… we used to sneak in… back when he was-"

He cut his sentence short.

'_Still alive', Zane? Are those the words you're going for? 'Still alive'? It was a gay bar, and you carried you gay little brother to meet his gay boyfriend back when he was gaily 'still alive'? _

"Ah, yes," Banner awkwardly said, mercifully understanding the point.

"My new secretary is a… _he_?" Zane said, trying to steer the topic back to its original point from the masochistically self-destructive thoughts of his dead little brother.

There was a crash behind them, and Zane turned his head to his kitchen. Mary, who hadn't been fed since Zane had purchased her, was apparently fed up and foraging for something to eat. Well, that wasn't his problem right now. Let her do whatever the fuck she wanted to the place.

"You know, it's an odd stereo-type, the assumption that all secretaries must be female." Some vigor and happiness had returned to Lyman's eyes, as they always did when he was talking about the queer little oddities of the world, "But yes, you're secretary is a he. He sounded rather foreign, actually… _heavy_ British accent… I think he'll be shocked to find out that Huffington's is a gay bar, he didn't really seem to know-"

"Did you catch his name?" Zane said, cutting Banner's musings short. Pharaoh meowed.

"Why yes," Lyman said jovially, giving Pharaoh a little squeeze, "His name is Bastion. Bastion Misawa."

-!I!I!I!I!I!I!I!-

Chazz was moodily looking around what he liked to call his 'jail cell'.

Of course, it was quite the opposite: the room was lavished in the most expensive furniture the hospital had to give, and yesterday, after that crackpot priest had come in, they had installed a TV in the corner _with_ cable. It was that hot, sexy nurse, Alexis. She said it was the least she could have done after that _horrible_ man came in and psychologically traumatized him like that. Chazz tried to hit on her. She looked at him as though startled, and then laughed dismissively and airily and left the room, saying something about having much more patients to attend to.

"Yeah, well it's the _least you could have done_ to at least flirt back, you know," he said to no one in particular. He looked at the newspaper and made a gesture as if to pick it up, and then stopped when his hands reached the cover page. He had already read everything. Well, everything except the comics and his horoscopes. He didn't deal in nonsense like that.

He settled for talking to himself some more. If he was crazy, then he thought it he was entitled to act like it. It made a hell of a good pastime, and he liked the sound of his own voice.

"She's just not ready for the sexiness of The Chazz," Chazz said self-assuringly, pacing to the reflective glass of his room.

People thought he was erroneous and his actions possessed the irregularity of lunacy, but sometimes he thought that if he concentrated very hard, he could see beyond the glass, see the nurses and doctors and patients' families bustling up and down the ward.

But of course, everyone thought he was crazy, so he didn't bother to voice his opinions aloud. Why should he tell anyone that he could see beyond the reflective glass? That he heard voices in his head? That his brother was molesting him?

His ignorance was why his therapy sessions with Doctor Atticus were always so inconclusive. Atticus subtly insisted that he was crazy and needed help. Chazz not so subtly demanded that he should be let out and placed in a foster home until he turned eighteen.

And then it would end up with the same question, every time.

'"Why don't you want to go back to your brothers? Why do you want to go to a foster home?"'

_Simple,_ he had wanted to say, _Because Jagger makes me play a_ stupid game _which makes me think I really am crazy where he_ touches _me everywhere, and then when I tell Slade, he says that I deserve it, every single bit of it, and that if I tell a soul, he'll send me here, and no body will believe me-_

And he told souls. He told many souls, and not one believed him, just like big brother Slade had said. Every time after Jagger had touched him, or even while he was doing it, he would drug Chazz. Chazz would babble incoherently for a while, and sometimes he would forget, sometimes he would remember. There were big black, swallowing epochs of time in his conscience where he simply could not remember _anything_, and there were times as though his recollections had the lucidity of things seen in a high fever: Jagger taking off his pants, Jagger running his hands through Chazz's thick hair in an action that went _far_ past brotherliness. Jagger telling Chazz that if he told any one about their 'little game', he would kill him. Jagger this, Jagger that.

… Jagger, Jagger, Jagger…

But he had told people: his friends, his teachers. All of them would look at Chazz concernedly, and they always had to call big brother Slade or big brother Jagger. They could never just take his word for it.

Jagger seemed a bit insincere to his promise: he didn't murder Chazz as he had insisted he would do dozens of times as he let his hands wander freely above and below Chazz's midriff, but when called in school or to a friend's house, he would give a charming smile or say something funny or compliment someone's hair style or say something nice about the room or say 'Oh, wow, that's a nice scent you have on there, madam.'

And it would all go to hell from there. It would go to a hell where his two fucking favorite people in the world, Jagger and Slade, made him out to be a garbled, confounded little liar. Yes, they were sorry to say that they had found packets of LSD and marijuana and heroine under Chazz's bed, and they were sorry to say that the drug problem sometimes affected the oh so good people like them, and that they were _so_ sorry to say that good ol' Chazz was just plain ol' _crazy_.

But there was one person that sounded like he believed him, and that was Father Zane. Father Zane had sounded scared, sounded a bit off guard, but he sounded as though he had believed him. Most of the conversation was blurred with the anesthetized, comatose effect of the drug, but when Zane had walked in yesterday and demanded a reason as to why Chazz had called him the morning before, Chazz began to cling to Zane like a savior. Of course, the cleric didn't know that. But then again, Zane had failed to mention what Chazz had called him for. It could have been anything, and the way Chazz's mindset was, he had immediately jumped to Jagger.

Slade sent him here now because of his campaign. He knew if anyone heard from Chazz that his brother Jagger was inappropriately touching him, and they believed Chazz to be _sane_, they would begin to link names… Chazz was Jagger's brother most obviously. Jagger was Slade's brother… so Chazz was Slade's brother. And that little bit of information would not bode well for Slade's campaign at all… why, he was condoning molestation in that thirty-roomed house of his in upper-class Domino? No, there wouldn't be any votes for Slade. They would all go to that bastard, Zane.

But as Slade drove Chazz over to the hospital a few days ago, he said that it was easier to make a campaign mascot out of a brother affected by the drug abuse of society and the inevitable mental illness it brought on (even if the abuse and mental illness was all a scam) then to make a campaign mascot out of a brother who had gone through molestation that he had pardoned and let occur in his own house.

"We'll drug you until you die, Chazz," he had said with manic cheer, his eyes bulging out of his head and his hands clasping around the steering wheel of the car. "We'll drug you until you die, Chazz, and if I see you talking to that fucker, Truesdale, ever again, I swear to his little finger-fucking God, I will kill you. You are not ruining my run for office." His mouth had pulled back in a sneer, and his eyes widened more, and he hunched over the steering wheel with a strange and dangerous fanaticism. He had let out an insane little giggle while Chazz screamed in the back seat, Jagger pinning him down. "No, siree, I'll kill you before you ruin _this_…I'll do _anything_ it takes to win…"

Chazz shook his head as he found his fingers skimming through the newspaper. That memory had seemed so vivid, so unequivocal in his reminiscence… but he was so _drugged_. Everything that night seemed so much like a dream.

Chazz gasped as he touched a shiny burn near his hip. No, that was still there… Jagger had thrown hot water from a teapot on him when Chazz started to scream. And Jagger was laughing and making him sing 'I'm A Little Teapot' while he licked the still tender burn as Chazz writhed and screamed in pain, screaming the song at the top of his lungs, his voice diminishing in age until he sounded like a sobbing, lost six year old. He found that when Jagger touched him, something in his mind would suck him in and years would rapidly peel away from him… one minute he felt like he was fourteen, next minute he felt like he was _four_.

Chazz continued shaking his head. That may have been really happened, but had that episode with the atypical Slade really occurred? Because Slade said he would kill him if he ever found Zane talking to him again, and there he was, in all his glory yesterday… talking to Zane again.

Alexis had dropped in earlier. She said that Jagger and Slade we're coming to visit.

"Well, I suppose we'll find out if they're really going to kill me," Chazz said nonchalantly as he found himself, for once, reading the comic strips. He could not see the humor in a situation that blatantly lacked mirth. After all, he wasn't Zane.

And even though he didn't believe in God, and he didn't think his strange mini-redeemer believed in God either, he had become somewhat transfixed with the thought of the priest as a divine figure in his hopeless situation. After all, he was assisting in assuring Chazz in memories that he hoped were really memories and not just lurid, bad hallucinations, right? Isn't that what Gods do? Help their followers? Clarify the doubts that plague their lives?

Gods usually helped their adherents (that was as much as Chazz could grasp about religion. It was after that when the good old Atheism came in), and Chazz had an idea that Zane, who was beginning to look more and more like an idol to him, had the perfect way to help him. Chazz had a plan, and all he had to do was get to a phone. After all, Alexis had said that soon, he was going on temporary leave from the hospital, and he got to spend two days with whomever he wanted…

**Last part was bland, huh? Yeah, I thought so. I had started the sort of Chazz POV when a friend called me on my stupid, stupid cell phone. We ended up blabbing about stuff for about an hour, and when I sat down again, I was like, 'Oh, well, I'm not really in my zone anymore, am I?'**

**Are any of you all even wondering if the burning down of Zane's secretary's house _wasn't_ an accident?**

**I'm so sorry you all had to wait so long for this chapter. The only way I managed to produce this piece of shit is because we have a holiday, and I feel like I'm in a more relaxed frame of mind. School sucks, and it's fucking with my brain. You saw my disclaimer. I have to do good because I have a life changing exam come June, and I have to pick subjects at the end of Form Three, yada yada yada…**

**I'll try to do things on Wednesdays when my aunt and my cousin aren't home so I wont have anyone here to bug me and take me out of my zone. I'll even switch off my cell phone for you guys.**

**I have some tragic news… you all will have to wait for your chapters… and I'm talking about, like… long waits. I just have a lot of work to do in school. I'll try for bimonthly updates, but I ain't making no promises.**

**I had intended for this chapter to be longer, to actually have Slade and Jagger come in and confront Chazz, but I decided to leave it for next chapter. You know, give you all something to look forward to… because we all know confrontations with Slade in it are so _interesting_…**

**And yes, you all finally see what I was talking about in my foreword and why I've been choosing the songs I've been choosing… Chazz is getting molested! . **

**Ooh, and looky what I did with Bastion! Well, I didn't know where to stick him in, so I decided to knock off Zane's useless secretary and make Bastion his secretary. Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes, Chumley is running a gay bar. Why? Because I don't have a life, and I thought it was funny.**

**Any way, next chapter should be very, very eventful! I mean, look at what Chazz has in mind to save himself from his damnation of sorts…**

**Next two or three chapters, expect great ChazzZane buttsecks! –cringes at my enthusiasm in that statement-. I'll warn you all before I post the chapter containing the lemon so you don't have to read it if you don't want to. Actually, I'll make the lemon an actual chapter so you can just skip over it.**

**But let's talk about it when the time comes… hell, judging from the irregularity of my writing, there may not even be a lemon!**

**I'm hyper… I've had lime juice. Tee-hee and omg, that sounds _so_ wrong. Anyways, I'll leave you here in what I hope to be suspense, even if this chapter was a bit lame. Tell me what you want to happen in chapter five to compensate for the lameness of my past couple chapters. In PMs, but preferably in reviews… you know, it tends to look nice in reviews. That, and I'm just so vain.**

**Later, peeps.**

**Ki-chan/Evanescent Whisper/ Kenny/ Sunshine/ Keena/ Keens/ Goth Girl #1 (-sweatdrops- I'm gonna kill CrAaIiIiIGgGg…)**


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